


creatures of habit

by orphan_account



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Civilian!Gavin, FAHC Au, M/M, Soulmate AU, Temporary Character Death, i got a lot of shit to get out of my system lads
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:21:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24035758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: fresh starts in fresh places.gavin free moves out of england and secures a job at a secret base, hoping to keep his civilian life on track as much as he can.and then the fakes step in.
Relationships: Gavin Free/Ryan Haywood
Comments: 7
Kudos: 102





	creatures of habit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ExistentialCloud](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExistentialCloud/gifts).



> happy springfairy, carter! it's not exactly, y'know. what i wanted it to be, but i'm pretty happy with how it turned out overall, so! i hope you enjoy!

The interview goes well, all things considered.

The IAA is desperate for employees, it seems, but most of all they’re desperate for _civilian_ employees, and even more specifically than they, they’re desperate for civilian employees with no criminal ties in Los Santos, because the job is this: a position as a receptionist in a secret underground base, funded by the IAA, run by the crew that pays the most. And that’s where the whole _no criminal ties_ thing comes in.

Los Santos, at its very core, is a corrupt shithole of a city, and it’s rare to find people without connections. Crews are paying top dollar for these bunkers, and nobody wants a rat. The IAA doesn’t wanna deal with the mess that comes with angry customers with guns, and thus. Civilians without ties.

And that’s where Gavin comes in.

He’s from out of the country, new in the city, clean slate, and he needs a job. He has experience with computers, and with retail, which means he’s okay, at best, with people. And he also knows how to play people’s emotions well without them realizing. People _like_ Gavin, plain and simple, as much as they don’t want to admit it. Which kind of cinches the whole operation for him.

The perks of the job include a living space, and protection, to some degree, provided he keeps loyal. As loyal as loyal can get. The protection itself only extends to when he’s in the actual base, and it comes from pre-hired IAA security guards, and, potentially, the crew itself. That part is rare, though, and he doesn’t expect it from about 90% of the gangs in Los Santos.

Lucky for _him,_ he’s told by the IAA that the base he’s working at is going to be run by the Fakes‒ or at the very least, a subsidiary of them, which is more than he could ever ask for.

The Fakes are notorious for being different than most crews. While they’re decently powerful, and they hold a large section of the city under their control, they’re known for being _nice_ to the people that work for them. As long as you’re loyal, you earn their protection, their care, and, with any luck, a way into the crew, should you need it. Gavin knows people, mercenaries, that have worked with the Fakes in the past‒ one of his neighbors, Meg, said it’d been one of the _better_ experiences in her career. Sometimes he’s met her in the morning down by the mailboxes and watched as she’d pulled calling cards out. Smiled at her, something tight in it, and never said a word.

Never said a word when she disappeared two months back, when the cops came around asking questions. He’d never known where she’d gone, and after he gave the cops his name and number for further inspection, they hadn’t come around again. He had no reason to lie to them, not about her, although they’d had their suspicions up until the point when‒

He doesn’t think about it when he starts packing. Purses his lips and rolls his sleeves down further, and tries to avoid the dark blue mark on his wrist, unfaded and neatly scrawled.

Gavin washes his sheets and bedspread, folds it messily around his breakables, and packs everything he owns into four boxes.

The base’s rooms aren’t _large_ , by any means, but each member that needs to live there gets the bare minimum. Gavin had assumed bare minimum meant bed and bath, like a hotel room in a sense, but what he _gets_ is one of the smallest apartments he’s ever seen in his life. There’s very little separation between it all‒ the dining room is both the living room _and_ the bedroom, and the only thing keeping the kitchen and the sitting area apart is a countertop. The bathroom is tucked away behind a door in the corner, and holds a bit of extra pantry space, just in case. It’s more than he expected, clearly, but it’s somehow just right.

There’s enough wall space between the living quarters of each individual employee to keep it all soundproof and secluded. Gavin suspects that if they all didn’t have to leave, they’d have no clue they were even all living in the same ‘building’ together.

He’s the first one to move in, and spends 30 minutes unpacking and sorting things out, and spends all of the rest of the weekend in bed, reevaluating everything.

God. He works for criminals. He _works for criminals_ , he works for one of the biggest crews in the city, good _god_. Technically working for the IAA, but there’s not much of a difference, is there. Even the government officials are corrupt in their own ways.

On Monday, he wakes up bright and early, and slips into his iron pressed suit, fidgeting with the cufflinks and forgoing the tie, and makes his way towards the receptionist’s desk. There’s no training involved with this job, plain and simple‒ he watches the cameras, he takes notes, and he provides the crew members with anything they need, mainly, as far as he’s aware, _snacks_.

And indeed, sitting just beneath the desk when he gets there is a mini-fridge and a shelf, each full of energy drinks and chips, respectively. Gavin hums low, and slumps into his seat.

Five minutes later, someone sits in the seat next to him.

It startles him bad enough that he nearly topples from his chair, and the man beside him laughs a little awkward.

“I am. So sorry,” he says, and honestly sounds apologetic about it. “I didn’t think I’d scare you- are you okay, dude?”

Gavin grunts and pushes himself back up into his chair. “I’m fine, I’m mostly just sleep deprived.”

“Oh, I get that,” the other man says, and settles back into his chair. “Seeing as how we’ll be working together, I should introduce myself‒ I’m Matt. Matt Bragg.”

He holds his hand out to shake, and in a momentary relapse of mindset, Gavin assesses him when he goes to shake his hand as well. The button down he’s wearing is rumpled in places where it had been folded and forgotten on the shelf, instead of hung like it should have been‒ it’s a dusty, greying white, and a little loose on his form, and has clearly been in the man’s possession for some time. The pants hang a little low on his hips, his belt one notch too loose, and he’s wearing converse instead of dress shoes, which Gavin can understand. His hair is dry, and goes to just below his ears, but he’s wearing an earnest smile with some _impressive_ eye bags. This man, Gavin realizes in the span of a second or two, is a hacker‒

Which means, already, the IAA has been lying to him.

“I’m Gavin,” is what he says with his mind running a mile a minute. “Gavin Free.”

“Nice to meet you, Gavin,” Matt grins a little wider. “You ever met the Fakes?”

Right into it. “No,” he admits with a shrug. “But a job’s a job.”

Something in Matt’s expression flashes by. “Yeah, I guess. You sure lucked out with them, though, I tell you what.”

“I’ve heard something along those lines.”

“I’ve worked with them before‒ small jobs,” he backtracks quickly. “Nothing too major, but I know what they’re planning on using this base for, and I know _who_ we’re gonna be seeing more often than not.”

“Oh yeah?”

Matt leans in conspiratorially, eyes narrowing with his grin widening. “It’s gonna be the three heaviest hitters‒ Mogar, Rimmy Tim, and the _fucking Vagabond_.”

Gavin inhales sharply‒ and then the base starts shaking.

“Ah,” Matt says quietly. “They’re here.”

Gavin finally recognizes the rumbling as the main hanger lowering. The crew’s coming in through the elevator entrance, which should be able to fit a _plane_ , which means...

Not even a minute after the shaking stops, the door just beyond the security check opens, and, not for the first time in his life, Gavin’s thankful for the fact he’s been around criminals before, if only because he doesn’t show as much fear around them as he used to. Still, though, the sight of the three of them is something awe-inspiring in some kind of way.

Rimmy Tim is the one who his eyes are drawn to immediately, for the obvious reason of his garish, bright ensemble. Purple, yellow, and orange has never looked _worse_ together, neon and blinding and Gavin has a migraine every time he blinks, and of course, _of course_ , the whole thing is pulled nicely together by a neat white cowboy hat. Next to him stands Mogar, brown leather jacket, loose, ripped jeans, and well worn sneakers, shiny sunglasses with cracked lenses and a sharp grimace. And behind the both of them, the main goddamn event, he guesses.

The Vagabond is every bit as imposing as his reputation has lead to believe. The leather jacket is tight against his frame, unzipped to show the black shirt beneath it, his jeans dark, his combat boots scuffed and used, but in no way _old_. He seems to tower over his two compatriots, but maybe, Gavin supposes, that’s the dark skull with eye sockets that seem to hold absolutely nothing behind them. Gavin wonders quietly about the man behind the mask, because, he has to reason with himself, that is all the Vagabond is, and that is all that any of them are.

This would be much easier if the three of them weren’t absolutely covered in blood.

They seem to be _tracking_ it through the halls on their way from security towards the reception desk, and Gavin grimaces for the person who has to clean that up.

“Matthew Bragg!” Rimmy Tim shouts, and reaches over to slap Matt across the back‒ Matt grits his teeth and sighs. “And,” the mercenary turns to Gavin now, curious. “Someone I’ve never met before!”

“Gavin,” he says blandly. “Gavin Free.”

“What’re you doing here, Gavin Free?” Mogar asks, a little too casually, but Gavin’s been around the block enough, so to say, to recognize that sting of distrust.

“Needed a job,” he says, and smiles as serenely as possible. “A little hard for a _civilian_ to get a decent one, nowadays.”

The stress he puts on civilian does not go unnoticed. All four men relax, just the slightest, little movements in their shoulders, and Mogar’s smile eases up. “Lucky for you we bought the place, then!”

“Lucky for me,” Gavin smiles.

“I’m Michael,” Mogar says, and then gestures to Rimmy Tim. “That’s Jeremy. We’re really the only ones you’ll need to talk to‒ Ryan here’s basically mute. Barely talks to us, anyways.”

Gavin takes the information and stores it away. “Sounds fair enough.”

“Cool, cool. Right now we’re just touring, but we’ll be around more often than not. Bossman kicked us out of the penthouse for a few weeks, so, you know. This is our‒ at least, the three of us‒ current base of operations for the unforeseeable future.”

“I mean. You _own_ the place,” Gavin says, a little dryly. “Don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

Michael laughs, a little startled. “I think I like you, Gavin Free.”

“Well, let’s see if I can keep that up. I’m notoriously a bit of a bloody prick to the few friends I had in England before I moved, so.”

The three of them begin to move on‒ Jeremy’s snagged an energy drink from Matt, and he smiles and gives a little two fingered salute. Matt grins at Gavin and pats him on the shoulder.

“Starting today, you’re officially an employee of the Fake AH Crew,” Matt says, and laughs even louder at the way Gavin’s face twists.

This is his life, for the next few months. The main three members of the crew hang around the base, as they said‒ but near the end of that first month, the boys go out that day. They come back later in the night, and, quite like the first day, they’re covered in blood. There are bullet holes in Ryan's jacket, in Jeremy’s hat, burn marks scorched on Michael’s jeans.

Gavin’s not really on duty that night, and the receptionist’s desk is devoid of Matt, who he knows is in the computer room. But he’s just outside of his own room, aching for a cigarette to still the shake in his hands from whatever had woken him up. And across the wide space in the base, through the holes in the separation wall, he sees them come in anyways. Hears them, too, loud and raucous, and delighted in what Gavin can only assume is a celebration of what he assumes is a heist well done, with the bag of cash slung over Michael’s shoulder.

He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t make a sound that night, but Ryan still seems to _sense_ him, casting a glance over to his direction. Their eyes meet, briefly, and Gavin inhales slowly before Ryan turns and follows the others.

When he does, eventually, go back into his room, he turns the news on, and lets it filter like background noise. That stare never leaves him and his heart rate is faster than a Shotaro, he feels like, and he still hasn’t had a smoke.

_“This footage caught by a Los Santos local shows the clear shot to the chest to the criminal, and, not even 30 minutes later, Rimmy Tim is seen standing up again without a problem, and without a hole in his chest. Although authorities were baffled at first, new sources are saying they have an idea as to how this has occurred. More on this situat...”_

They come back like that every heist, and Gavin doesn’t say a word.

The news reports are starting to call it things like _immortality_ and _invincibility_ , and the crew seems to be getting more agitated as the theories stack higher and higher. Not that they talk to _him_ about it. No, around him it’s... nice. They’re _people_ , of course, like everyone else in the business, but Gavin finds that they’re good people to hang around with in general.

Michael and Jeremy are like two sides of the same coin‒ loud, and abrasive, and a _good fucking time_. In the first few months he’d been here, Gavin had found Jeremy was all too willing to do what he asked, shots of hot sauce and googly eyes glued to the back of his head. Michael, on the other hand, was _less_ willing, unless a bet was involved. Money was a language all criminals spoke, and Gavin liked to see how far he could take it.

The three of them get along way too well for it to be normal, and it’s a delight. A riot. Gavin _almost_ wishes, sometimes, he wasn’t a civilian, just to hang out with them a little bit more.

As for Ryan, well. Gavin doesn’t know Ryan too much. That’s just how it is when the two of them never talk. Not that he wouldn’t like to talk with him‒ all he ever hears from him are grunts, and huffs of breath. He considers learning sign language, and realizes he’s never seen Ryan _use_ it, so wouldn’t he be a fool if the man never learned.

But he wants to be closer to Ryan. Just being around the guy makes him feel warm and fuzzy inside, and isn’t that a thought, that being _near_ someone would give him heart palpatations like a bloody fucking fairytale. His wrist itches anytime Ryan even _nods_ to him, and Gavin wonders if it’s guilt, over liking someone that isn’t his soulmate.

He doesn’t get his hopes up about the other option.

There’s a moment that comes after a heist, and it’s _not_ like the others. The boys come in and the mood shifts from the usual‒ it’s fractic, stifling, and it presses against his lungs immediately‒ for one, it’s a lot more blood than usual. For another thing, it’s still _flowing,_ from open wounds and still beating hearts. Gavin hesitates at his post, watching sharply, before resigning himself and shoving out of his chair, shuffling off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves on the way towards the medical rooms.

In for a penny, in for the pound.

He barges in on Michael and Jeremy desperately whisper-shouting at one another, each of them with a hand on Ryan’s wounds, which, good. They know _that_ much. When Gavin bumps the door open fully, finishing off his left sleeve, they both turn to him, eyebrows furrowed, and unsure, and he takes the time to take the initiative.

“From what I can tell, you’ve never had to do stitches on yourself, or anyone else. I don’t know if that’s because you’ve always had someone to do it for you‒” Jeremy bites his lip, and Gavin’s gaze flicks to him for just a moment, “‒or if it’s because you’ve never _needed_ stitches.”

Now, all three of them look away. Gavin grimaces and continues to file it all away in the back of his mind and moves on. “So unless you plan on giving him an infection that’ll last him through a respawn, I suggest you let me help.”

They move aside, keeping on the pressure, and Gavin fishes out the thread and alcohol. This is going to get a little messy. He’s glad he doesn’t care much for the shirt.

“Where did you learn to do this,” Jeremy asks a little softly, when they’re about fifteen minutes in.

Gavin’s right‒ the white of his shirt is pretty much permanently stained, and Ryan’s blood is up to his elbows. He’s working diligently enough that he almost doesn’t hear the question‒ or what Michael says next.

“Thought you were a civilian,” comes the aside, and it’s a _pointed_ accusation, sharp like a stab to his own back. He can’t explain this away, though. Not like he wants to.

“I am,” he mumbles, and pulls the last knot tight, cutting off the thread. “At least. I’m _trying to be_.”

He turns back to them and makes an uncomfortable little grin. “I used to be a hired gun, back in England. Got me into a lot of trouble. A _lot_. At the first chance I got, I moved away. I needed to start over. This was the closest thing I had.”

“Los Santos isn’t really a _civilian_ city,” Jeremy says softly.

“Exactly,” Michael grimaces. “But it’s the closest you can get when you’re already part of the life.”

There’s a beat of silence as Gavin wipes the blood away from Ryan’s wounds, leaving the skin clean and pale. And then Ryan forces his way into a sitting position, and gently peels his mask up and off his head.

Gavin’s heart stops, and his wrist seems to burn. Ryan is _handsome_ , even with the dark bags beneath his eyes, and the bruise on his jaw, and the blood smeared beneath his nose and across his lip. The smell of smoke is more obvious now, masking the alcohol and copper, and Gavin has to start breathing through his mouth before he’s overwhelmed.

Ryan gives him a nod in thanks, putting a hand on his shoulder. Gavin tries to smile back as naturally as he can, and tries really hard not to think about how he _sometimes_ misses the life he used to live.

The news rambles on, and Michael gets a phone call, and comes back angry.

“They’re setting us up,” is as much as he gets through, before Ryan makes a choked little noise and pointedly looks to Gavin.

“What does it matter that he’s here?” Michael spits. “They probably hired him because they thought he was fucking expendable. No offense,” he says, a little kinder, and Gavin shrugs, taking a long sip of Red Bull. It’s true, and he should say it.

Gavin turns back to the TV as Ryan and Jeremy get up and step closer to Michael. None of them pretend he isn’t listening, but he’s not really a part of the conversation.

“The fuckin’ IAA set _all_ the crews up that bought their bases‒ all they want is for the heavy hitters to do their dirty work. Once the work is done, they’ve set to take on the crews, and take them _out_. Heard from Geoff that the Lost is barely on standing legs anymore, which, y’know. Good _and_ bad for us.”

Ryan grunts as Jeremy whistles low. Gavin stares at the news channel placidly, his fingers itching around the remote like it’s an old friend, even when the shape is wrong.

“They’re coming for us next,” Michael continues. “We gotta go on strict lockdown and start being more fuckin’ careful about which heists we take.”

“What stores we rob,” Jeremy says as an afterthought. “We’re getting reckless. Comfortable. They’ll pick up on that.”

 _They already have_ , Gavin thinks, and starts to wonder if he’s committed to being normal.

The day comes three weeks later.

The boys are out on a heist, mandated and assisted by Geoff Ramsey and Jack Pattillo as a way to reassure themselves in the hierarchy of the city. There’s been a lot of those lately, and Matt’s been pretty busy as well. By now, Gavin knows Matt was a little bit light with his definition of “nothing too major‒” he’s a hacker that’s been with them for quite some time. Humbly, he’d lied, because Gavin was _new_. So. Gavin doesn’t blame him.

As it stands, Matt’s not at the front desk with him when the security alarms start going off.

Gavin reacts a little _too_ slowly, blinking out his own thoughts and startling when the sound finally seems to reach his ears, jolting him nearly out of his seat. When two shots go off, he jolts again, and begins to move. He shuffles some things around and makes to stand, maybe to find the others and, if he’s lucky, warn them.

When he looks up, something cold presses against his skin, and his heart drops.

The boys are just behind the agents‒ because that’s who they are, of course, the IAA agents‒ and they’re putting up a valiant effort, but Gavin knows a losing battle when he sees one.

Gavin, overwhelmed, goes to stand up.

“Oh dear,” the person still holding a gun to him says. “We can’t have that now, can we.”

A gunshot goes off, and Gavin slumps backwards into his chair.

Ryan hears the bullet before he sees the result.

When he looks over, there’s blood trickling down Gavin’s skin, and his eyes are wide open. Unresponsive.

Ryan hears someone ( _himself_ ) shout. How fucking dare they‒ _how dare they_ , he was a civilian, he had nothing to do with it‒

Ryan can come back, and Gavin _can’t_ , and that’s not fucking fair to anyone.

Ryan _liked_ Gavin. He was funny, and gentle, and something about him made Ryan’s heart _ache_. He wanted to find out _why_. He wanted to see if‒

One of the agents‒ Ivan, Ryan recognizes him as a mainstay IAA member who hadn’t approved of what his bosses were doing with their bases, with their resources. He grits his teeth, and Ivan lowers the gun from Gavin’s body.

“Aw,” Ivan says. “Vagabond was attached to the pet. Cute.”

Someone strikes him across the side of his head, and everything goes black.

He wakes up with a headache.

Groaning, he flexes his wrists‒ good. Morons didn’t tie him up. This _isn’t_ the room they’d hit him in, though, which means he’d been _moved_ while he was out. The blood on his head isn’t dry yet, either, which means the hit is still fresh, which means this is his fastest respawn time. He doesn’t know whether to laugh or not‒ his old bosses would have had a field day with that, knowing he could come back within‒ (He pulls his phone out to check. He nearly chokes.)‒ three minutes.

He stands up, and takes the knife from the floor beside him. One will do. He wasn’t one of the most qualified hitmen in the world for no reason.

 _Fuck_ , does his head hurt though. That’s what he gets for not being fully healed.

He starts making his way through the halls. If his hunch is right, and usually it is, they’ll have taken the rest of the crew by surprise in the main meeting room. He’s not surprised by the presence of a guard at the beginning of the hall that leads down that way.

But boy is the _guard_ surprised. He’d like to take a photo, really, some professional this guy is, but he doesn’t have the time to waste. It’s an easy takedown, and the knife feels balanced in his hand when he drags it across the other’s throat. He bites the inside of his cheek and tries not to dwell on it for too long, and takes the guard’s gun and silencer off his belt.

The guards just outside of the doors go down too easily. When he kicks the door open, it’s with a grim smile, because he’s nothing if not dramatic.

Everyone in the room whirls around and stares‒

“You’re supposed to be _dead_ ,” Ryan whispers, and Gavin grits his teeth further, feeling blood seep down the bridge of his nose from the still-open bullet hole in his forehead.

“That’s a _little obvious,”_ he replies, and shoots Ivan in the chest three times.

It would have only been once, but he’s afraid he would’ve missed.

His wrist had jolted when Ryan had said what he did, and was still burning when he’d replied, and, sure enough, when he glances down at it‒

That deep, deep blue is beginning to fade away, and Gavin looks up to Ryan and smiles.

“Well, what do you know,” he laughs. “Bloody waiting for you, and yet.”

“And yet,” Ryan says back, and Gavin could _really_ get used to that voice.

“I was an agent for MI5. An assassin, more specifically. One of their best.”

Gavin sits closely to Ryan’s side. The mercenary has an arm wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him even closer‒ he’s practically laying atop him, at this point.

It must look a sight to the Kingpin of the Fakes, and now the kingpin of Los Santos‒ Geoff Ramsey is sitting there in front of the both of them, arms crossed, with a bemused expression on his face, waiting expectantly for the full story. Michael and Jeremy are over with Jack, giving their version as well, but the both of them keep looking over to Gavin. He’s no longer as clean as a _simple_ hired gun for them.

That’s what he gets for getting attached.

“After a mishap with a target, I died. They came to collect my body, and I woke up half an hour later in the middle of the autopsy. Scared the shit out of the doctors. And then, once the higher ups found out I couldn’t _die_ , things got... understandably bad. I was demoted, in a way, but before I could get to that point... I ran.”

“Ended up in Los Santos?” Geoff asks, and Gavin shrugs.

“It’s the only place I could think of where I could get a _relatively_ clean start, with my. Well. Nonexistent background.”

“Why’d you need a clean start?” Ryan asks, and it’s so gently perfect to hear him say anything at all. Gavin leans in impossibly closer.

“Thought it was what I needed‒ I thought it would help me, I don’t know, figure myself out? I don’t remember the reason, anymore.”

“So... you’re saying you’re done being a civilian?”

Gavin laughs. “More or less. I don’t know if I can keep it up anymore, not after that.”

Geoff purses his lips. “The IAA agents that _aren’t_ trying to kill everyone are looking for four person crews to do a couple of high stakes heists. Obviously, Michael, Jeremy and Ryan are the top picks, but Jack and I have other business to attend to, and most of our crew members are too inexperienced to keep up, and we don’t know if they’re able to respawn yet or not. So... here’s my offer‒”

Gavin smiles as Geoff goes on, explaining the trial period and the lead up. Ryan’s grip tightens, rubbing against his shoulder sweetly, and Michael and Jeremy are laughing just a little too loudly over to the side with Jack.

“Sure,” he says. “I can give it a go.”


End file.
